


The Pursuit of the Hypochondriac Hard Man

by bees_stories



Series: The Prospero Incident [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Case Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injured John, Injured Sherlock, M/M, Other, Romance, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 00:22:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8555395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bees_stories/pseuds/bees_stories
Summary: Greg Lestrade arrives on Prospero, a small Caribbean island, after Sherlock and John locate wanted London hard man Lester "Peaky" Adderson, or rather Peaky and his boys locate Sherlock and John. Paired with DI Perla Bonny of the Prospero Constabulary, it's up to Greg to locate the fugitives before they flee for parts unknown.This is the sequel to The Adventure of the Storming Sea. You don't have to read that one first, but it wouldn't hurt. Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. No copyright infringement is intended.





	1. Chapter 1

* * * * *

"Good God." Greg Lestrade spoke without thinking. "You have been through the wars."

John Watson smiled resignedly at the assessment, and then he grimaced. Clearly even the small motion was painful. He was, to put it in charitable terms, a wreck. Khaki-coloured shorts and a loose fitting white linen shirt only partially concealed that he was bruised black and blue where he wasn't an angry pink from a bad sunburn. Both his left knee and wrist were encased in Lycra and Velcro braces.

"What happened?" he asked as John suppressed an oath and beckoned him inside. 

"Ask Sherlock." John shot a look over his shoulder at the detective, who was reclining on a large adjustable teak bed, the head of which was raised to prop up his upper body. A considerable amount of Sherlock's skin was exposed because the loose fitting blue satin dressing gown he was clad in had come unbelted at the waist. He was as burnt and bruised and battered as John, only it was his right side, especially his wrist and ankle, that had taken the brunt of the damage. 

Despite his upright position, he appeared to be asleep.

John shut the door on the oppressive heat, indicated Greg should drop his holdall in a recess in the wall that doubled as a cupboard, and ushered the way to a sofa and chair arrangement that overlooked a shrub-enclosed patio large enough to hold an umbrella-shaded table, a couple of chairs, and a pair of sun loungers without looking crowded. There was probably a barbecue grill as well – the set up wouldn't be complete without one – but Greg couldn't see it from his vantage point.

John glanced towards the bed. "You needed worry about waking him. I had to put him out to keep him quiet."

Greg lowered his voice anyway. "You said on the phone that you'd got a line on Peaky Adderson." 

"More like he got a line on us." John frowned as he limped his way over to a chair where he had evidentially been resting before Greg's arrival. "He kidnapped us, right out of a local health club, and then tried to kill us by dumping us down a shaft into a sea cave as the tide was coming in." He settled with difficulty into the chair and swung his injured knee up to rest on the footstool.

Which explained the damage the pair had sustained. Greg's imagination filled in the grisly details when John declined to elaborate. The fall would have led to the bruises and broken or sprained limbs. A prolonged time in the ocean, swimming for their lives, explained the signs of exposure and the vicious sunburn.

Prospero had been struck by a sharp blow from Tropical Storm Winfred, and there was signs of damage everywhere on the ride from the airport to the resort property where John and Sherlock were staying. "You're lucky to be alive."

John shrugged and winced, evidentially he wasn't permitting himself the same sort of pain relief that he was allowing Sherlock. "There's a gel pack in the fridge. Would you mind? Oh, and help yourself to a beer if you want one."

There were multiple cold packs in the freezer section. Greg took one and wrapped in in a bar towel from the stack on the smokey-grey granite work top. He handed John the cold pack before helping himself to a beer. "You – " He waved a beer towards John, who shook his head. 

"Just water for me, thanks."

Greg poured water from the dispenser in the fridge door. He held the glass at the ready as John tipped a couple of tablets into his palm and then popped them into his mouth. "Thanks."

John adjusted the cold pack until it was propped to his satisfaction and then he asked, "Who is he anyway? Peaky Adderson, I mean. All Sherlock would say was that he was a wanted London hard man, and that he was a hypochondriac," he added almost as an afterthought.

"Peaky runs a diversified operation," Greg explained as he twisted the cap off his beer and then settled in more comfortably on the sofa. It was a lot more cosy than the either the aeroplane or the taxi that had brought him to the bungalow had been, and he was tempted to sprawl out. "He runs guns, girls, boys, drugs, all the usual vices. But he touched off a turf war when he started smuggling cigarettes, of all things, from America."

John pulled a sceptical face, and it was Greg's turn to shrug. He took a swig from the sweating bottle and then pressed the cool glass against his cheek. "You never know what's going to kick these things off. At any rate, one night, at the end of the evening, shots were fired. Three from Peaky's 9mm ended up in the chest of Mario Gatti, the younger and much beloved brother of Anthony."

"Tactical error?" John leant forward and adjusted the cold pack to a new spot before settling back into his chair again.

"You could say that," Greg agreed. "Anthony Gatti is not one of those people you want to upset unnecessarily. He put out a contract on Peaky and his chief lieutenants. After the first time Anthony paid out, Peaky decided that discretion was the better part of valour and scarpered."

"Good riddance to bad rubbish," John commented. "So why do you want him back?"

"Strictly speaking, I don't. But the head of the organised crime unit seems to think she can use Peaky to get Gatti."

"So when Peaky, or one of his boys, saw Sherlock and me they thought we were on the case." John looked at Greg with an expression that said he wouldn't appreciate anything but a straight answer. "Was Sherlock on the case? Did you send him here?"

Greg shifted against the palm frond-patterned cushions uncomfortably. It wasn't as if he had actually _commissioned_ Sherlock to look for Peaky, he had just sort of suggested in passing how if he was the one to get a line on the missing gangster, it would improve his lot immeasurably with his new Chief Super.

"I might have mentioned we were looking for Peaky the last time I bumped into Sherlock." He held up his hands to forestall whatever John was thinking "I swear, that's all. Sherlock haring off, with you in tow, was all his idea."

"He's right, John." Clearly still under the influence of whatever John had given him, Sherlock sounded as if he was still more out of it than awake.

John glanced over sharply. He looked as if he might get up, leaning forward in anticipation of swinging his bad knee off its resting place, but Sherlock shook his head. "You didn't miscalculate the dose, I only swallowed one of the capsules you gave me. I wanted to be awake for Lestrade's arrival." 

John pulled a displeased face, but otherwise reserved his comments for a more private moment. In any event, Sherlock wasn't finished with his confession. 

"It was my impetuousness that brought us to where we are right now. I had no idea that our presence on the island would cause Adderson to react like a cornered rat."

"A desperate man does desperate things," John said.

Under normal circumstances, stating the obvious was a sure-fire way to invite one of Sherlock's scathing retorts. But whether it was the drugs or the rare attack of remorse, Sherlock let the truism slide without so much as an eye roll. He gathered his dressing gown around him, concealing some of his injuries, and re-tied the belt.

"How did you know he was going to be here?" Greg asked. He hadn't even known Sherlock and John had left the UK until he had received John's midnight SOS.

"I didn't." It was clear from Sherlock's bitter tone that he was still kicking himself for the error. "My informant had placed him on Fortuna, the small island fifteen miles to the west. If you look out the past the garden, you can see the lighthouse in the distance."

Greg frowned. "You lost me. If you thought he was on Fortuna, why did you come here?"

"Camouflage," Sherlock answered, with a bit more of his accustomed snappishness. "Fortuna has yet to fall prey to the tourist hordes. A pair of obviously fresh off the plane Londoners would cause comment. I thought, rather than storming in, we would acquire a little local colour before following up a rather tenuous lead. If it proved a dead end, the journey wouldn't have been wasted. John and I would have enjoyed a break from especially dreary London winter. If the lead was accurate, then I would have called you myself, so that you could organise Adderson's extradition."

"Good thinking." On the balance it was a neat plan. "Pity it didn't work out." Something else was bothering Greg, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He was too tired from an abbreviated night's sleep and the long journey. He glanced around the luxuriously appointed bungalow, taking in the casually elegant Italian marble floors, tasteful landscapes that dotted the walls, and overstuffed teak furnishings, until his gaze fell on Sherlock atop his raised dais, and then it finally came to him. "There's one thing I don't understand."

Sherlock smiled derisively. "Just one?"

"Sherlock." John's warning was reflexively given and duly noted by the detective. Greg waited until the pair were finished pulling faces at one another and then he pressed onward. "If the two of you are meant to be dead, then why haven't you gone into hiding?"

"Because we were travelling incognito," Sherlock replied as if it were obvious. "Peaky Adderson believes Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have been quietly drowned at sea. He has no reason to concern himself with the injuries sustained by Christopher Scott and James Hamish, who are currently suffering from a case of bad judgement. Like many other foolhardy tourists, they attempted to sailboard on a day when the red flag was raised. Our house doctor, who also doubles as police surgeon, told me that there are similar cases at hotels and resorts all over the island."

"Very neat," Greg admitted. "So if not Fortuna, where do you suppose Peaky Adderson is now?"

Sherlock's gaze travelled to the sliding glass patio door and it seemed as if he was looking at something much farther away then the space enclosed by the neatly trimmed flowering shrubbery. "Holed up nearby, waiting for the marina to resume operations." His expression became a frustrated one. "I can't work out why he didn't go straight to Fortuna."

Greg drained the last of the lager from the bottle. He glanced around the suite and tried not to sigh. London had been grey and biting cold. Snow had been forecast and the pilot had intimated they had been lucky to escape Heathrow before operations were suspended. A few days basking in the Caribbean sunshine would not go amiss in his view. 

It would take a time to process the paperwork, once they finally collared Peaky and his boys. Maybe, while it was grinding through the system, Sherlock and John might let him take advantage of one of the sun loungers. Until then, there was work to do. With a sigh of regret, Greg began to lever himself off the sofa cushions. "Right. I better introduce myself to the locals and get the lay of the land."

"Give Lestrade his welcome to the island gift, John."

John nodded. "It's over there, on the counter."

Greg had noticed, without assigning any real significance, the garishly printed tote bag that sat next to a bowl filled with bananas and oranges and sundry other types of fruit. He pointed at it, and then at his chest. 

"That's the one," John confirmed. "You'll need what's inside."

With a minor sense of trepidation, Sherlock's idea of a gift could be, at times, rather peculiar, Greg looked inside the bag. The floppy wide-brimmed hat and bottle of water were somewhat self-explanatory, as was the SPF 70 bottle of sunscreen. But the last item in the bag puzzled him. "What's this?" he asked, as he read the label on the metal bottle of spray-on tanning solution that promised to leave its user with a 'Golden, sun-kissed glow without streaks or spots'. 

"You don't have the benefit of time, Lestrade," Sherlock said. "Even though our bodies were meant to be washed out to sea, the longer our deaths go unremarked upon, the more his doubts that the job was done properly will grow. His paranoia will get the better of his common sense, and Adderson will bolt yet again. You better assist him, John."

"Right." John tipped his head. "The bath is through there. Strip down, have a shower if you want one, and I'll help you lose the 'fresh from London' pallor." He tossed his gel pack onto the coffee table and started to struggle to his feet. Greg dropped the bottle of fake tan back into the bag and hurried over to assist. Supporting John's weight as he got his bad leg underneath him, Greg was close enough to hear the bitten back oath, and witness him pale underneath his sunburn.

"I'm fine." John smiled in a way that acknowledged he was being caught out in a lie. "Well," he temporised, "as fine as I can be, given what happened."

"You both look like you'd be better off in hospital."

Involuntarily, John shuddered. "I know how it looks, but other than Sherlock's minor concussion and broken collarbone, it's all superficial damage. Sprain and muscle pulls. They're the sort of injuries time will sort out."

Greg interpreted several meanings from John's fervent rejection of hospital care. There was the fabled loathing of all medical practitioners to submit to the indignity of becoming a patient. But there was also the weary acknowledgement that despite his own injuries, he was the only person to whom Sherlock would grudgingly submit, and without his constant supervision, it was likely the detective would pull another infamous stunt. Like the time he had left the critical unit, despite having just been shot in the chest, dragging an I.V. stand behind him for a tête-à-tête with Charles Augustus Magnussen.

John didn't want his sympathy, but he had it anyway. Greg hid his reaction by pulling his shirt off, only partially unbuttoned, over his head. He dropped it on the counter top, between two black granite bowls that were fitted with bronze taps. After kicking off his worn boat shoes and peeling off his socks, he stepped out of his travel-rumpled Dockers, folded them neatly, and placed them on top of his shirt. 

Over the years, John had seen him in various states of undress while either sharing accommodations or while patching up injuries sustained during sundry misadventures, and after the long journey, a shower sounded good. He dropped his pants on top of the trousers, and whistled in appreciation as he stepped behind the opaque glass wall that divided the bathroom.

The shower, such as it was, was large enough for two people to sluice down under a bank of heads that could be set to either simulate a gentle rain or provide a bracing torrent. The tub, which was accessed by descending a trio of steps, was ringed with massaging jets.

"Sweet."

John shrugged, and he seemed slightly embarrassed by the opulent surroundings. "I should have known something was up when we checked in. Sherlock always overcompensates when he knows he's going to get caught out."

"You're lucky you can both afford it. I'm dreading to see where the Met has me billeted." Greg sighed. On these sorts of jobs there was always better things to do than sleep. Other than as a place to stow his gear, he probably wouldn't spend much time in his lodgings. But he doubted John and Sherlock had to worry about the threat of sharing a space with bedbugs or other vermin.

There was a single head fitted presumably for the purpose of non-recreational washing up. It took a couple of seconds to work out which set of controls went with it, but after a single false start, warm water began to fall in a cascade, so Greg unwrapped a bar of soap from a recessed shelf and got busy. As he lathered and rinsed, he realised he had agreed, without really thinking about it, to participating in one of Sherlock's schemes. He shut off the water and a towel appeared in the doorway. "John, I suppose I follow his logic, but is this fake tan malarkey really necessary?" Greg asked as he took the towel and began to buff his skin dry. 

John shrugged. He spoke quietly, as if he was wary of his voice carrying and Sherlock overhearing. "Who can say? But I'd appreciate it if you went along. Because of the concussion, Sherlock needs to stay calm and get as much rest as possible. It will be easier to get him to do that if he feels like he's participating in the investigation, even if it's from the sidelines." 

Greg finished drying off. He handed the towel to John and turned his back, spreading his arms out to the sides of his body. John brushed lingering water from spots he had missed. "Then I guess we better get on with it so we don't leave Sherlock alone too long. He might get a brainwave and try to sneak out on us."

"Thanks." John gave the bottle a vigorous shake and then starting at Greg's nape, he began to spray, first in short bursts, and then he covered the wider plane of Greg's back in longer passes. 

The enclosed space began to fill with a golden-hued mist, and Greg understood why John had suggested he submit to the treatment in the shower rather than the lavatory. The clean-up was going to take a considerable effort. With all the nozzles and sprayers at hand, the maid would have an easier time of it washing the residue down the drain.

The spraying sound paused as John gave the can another vigorous shake. He made a muffled pain sound, and grabbed onto the towel bar for support. After a couple of deep breaths, he got a hold of himself once more. "Sorry, it's the damned knee. Moving can be awkward." When Greg pivoted to offer his support, John waved him off. "it's all right. I'm okay now."

John's brow was dotted with beads of perspiration that had nothing to do with the sultry climate, but Greg didn't call out the lie. He merely resumed his position, this time spreading his legs wide to make it less inconvenient to spray between them. The hissing sound resumed for a few seconds, and then it stopped and John swore again. "Sorry. This is awkward. I can't get down far enough to do the backs of your legs. Could you – "

Greg wasn't exactly sure what John wanted him to do and then he reached out to the towel bar again, gripped it firmly, and raised his bad leg. "Oh. Right." If John couldn't bring the spray to Greg, then Greg would need to bring his legs to the spray. Feeling like an ungainly ballerina, Greg assumed his position at the bar and waited for the spray job to recommence.

After a few moments, during which the can did its imitation of a maraca, cool mist began to tickle its way down over his thigh, past the inside of his knee, and over his calf. When it reached the bottom of his ankle, he lowered his foot and John took another short breather before they repeated the exercise with his other leg.

"Front now," John said as he gave the can another vigorous shake. 

The process was more straightforward now that they had more or less worked out a system. Greg shut his eyes to keep the spray out of them and at the last second, decided perhaps it would be a good idea to shut his mouth as well. When John got to his chin, he tipped his head back and exposed his throat. 

John kept spraying, pausing more frequently to shake the can as its contents were exhausted. He left no illusions of tan lines when he reached south of Greg's navel, which led briefly to wistful thoughts of nude beaches that there would probably be no time to explore. They repeated the leg business, with Greg clutching the towel bar as he lifted his leg forward, and soon he was completely coated. 

He glanced down at his naked skin. "I don't see a difference."

"it takes – " John read off the back of the can. "Twenty minutes before you get the 'sun kissed tan of your dreams'." He cracked a smile, and it was obvious he was thinking, 'Yeah, right.' He scanned the back of the can some more and then said, "The instructions say not to touch your skin or get it wet while the colour is developing, or you'll mess up the effect."

He limped out of the bathing area, dropped the exhausted can into the bin underneath the counter, and washed spray residue off his hands before he left the room. He was back a few moments later with Greg's duffel, which he set on the counter. "Freshen up after you're done processing." He put a mobile set to timer mode on the counter next to the holdall. "Your local colleague is on her way. Apparently, there has been a development."

* * * * * 

Periods of rehabilitation after various injuries, both major and minor, had taught John it was better to do as much as he was capable of doing while he was ambulatory. He took a few moments for himself, pouring and then drinking another glass of cool water, and then he filled a second glass, this one with guava juice from a pitcher in the fridge. He carried over to its intended recipient – who glared in distaste at the turbid pink liquid – and then collapsed ungracefully onto his side of the mattress.

"I'd rather have coffee," Sherlock grumbled.

"And I'd rather not have body parts that throbbed in time with my breathing," John replied as he carefully massaged first his damaged wrist, and then the one not supported by a brace. "But here we are." He sighed, releasing some of his pent up frustration. "We haven't any. We were meant to get some along with the other shopping, after the spa. So unless you want Room Service crashing our meeting with the police, it might be a good idea to give your caffeine habit a rest." 

"Fine." Dutifully, Sherlock emptied the glass and then dropped it next to him on the bed like a sulky child might. 

The bedding underneath his back shifted slightly. John opened one eye and even that took a surprising degree of effort. He was tired after his exertions. His eyelids hurt, sunburn having taken its toll on the delicate tissues. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock managed one of his patented lip presses, which was shorthand for 'Don't be thick, John.' "Lestrade is here. Soon, so will Inspector Whatever her name is. Where are my crutches?"

"Bonny," John supplied, knowing perfectly well Sherlock could recall the name of their local liaison officer if he chose to. "Detective Inspector Perla Bonny. Your crutches are over here." He unhooked them from the headboard and lifted them enough so they scraped the against the wood.

Sherlock glared at John as he recalled how the crutches came to their resting place. John met his eyes, unmoved. Despite his own injuries he was still the doctor and had final say over matters like the need for rehydration and bedrest. Both of which Sherlock needed badly. In frustration he had confiscated the crutches so that Sherlock would be forced to do his thinking in bed rather than while pacing.

"There is work to be done." Sherlock made a better effort to straighten his clothing. "As you told Lestrade, there have been developments."

John reached out and managed to hook his fingers in the loops of the dressing gown's tie. "That the police are more than capable of chasing up." He tried to make his smile conciliatory, but it felt more like a grimace. "This time, Sherlock, you're going to have to sit this one out. Or at least restrict yourself to coaching from the sidelines," he added to soften the blow.

"Fine." Although he was stubborn, Sherlock wasn't quite as pig-headed as he had been during the early years of their association. "Then may I at least be allowed to go sit in a chair instead of being confined to bed? I need a change of perspective."

John knew from both his own experience, and that of the soldiers he had treated, that even the most comfortable mattress could seem like a concrete block after too many hours confinement. He nodded. "Come on. We can take a couple of turns round the room. Then later, after Greg and Inspector Bonny head out, we can have a go at a bath."

Sherlock curled his lip with disdain. "Tepid water."

John looked down at his blistered shoulder. "We can hope. The state our skin is in..." He didn't need to complete the thought, Sherlock knew as well as he did how delicate and sensitive sunburnt skin could be. In a way they were lucky, if you could call it luck. The storm that had nearly drowned them had also saved them from an even more serious case of sunburn. He chuckled appreciatively at the irony.

"What?" Sherlock gazed down at John with a puzzled expression.

He wasn't sure the passing thought would stand up to close scrutiny, so John demurred. "Nothing." Apparently the answer was unsatisfactory. Sherlock continued to regard him curiously, so John tried to explain. "I was just thinking if the rains hadn't come we would be in even worse shape. I seem to recall you were grateful for tepid water when the sun was trying to burn us to a crisp."

There wasn't much point in disputing fact, so Sherlock remained mute, at least on the subject of their prospective bathwater. Instead he remarked, on their second turn around the bungalow, "Your limp is worse." 

John glanced down at his injured leg reflexively. Though the blinding white stab of pain he had experienced a few minutes earlier had diminished, his knee still throbbed in time with his pulse. He was doing his best to soldier on, but very little escaped Sherlock. "I put my weight on it wrong when I was helping Greg with the tanning spray. It will pass."

Before he could remark further on John's state of recovery, Sherlock staggered, and his crutches slipped out from underneath him. John was forced to dive underneath Sherlock's good arm and catch his weight. "I think that's enough exercise for now."

They were closer to the bed than to the living room suite. John exerted his medical privilege and guided Sherlock up the dais and onto his, mostly made up, side of the bed, shifting Sherlock's discarded bolster back underneath his ankle. "All right?"

Sherlock nodded and shut his eyes against an apparent wave of fatigue. "Don't fuss, John."

"Don't be a crap patient," John replied without rancour as he settled as comfortably as he could manage on Sherlock's side of the bed. "Have a rest, and I'll wake you when Bonny gets here."

Sherlock nodded, and then he closed his eyes. Relieved, John did too. A few moments later, they were both spark out.

* * * * * 

Greg admired himself in the mirror. For a man firmly caught up in the throes of middle age, he was in pretty fair nick, despite the erratic hours he kept, and all the accompanying hazards that went with them. His stomach was still flat, without the too common paunch that seemed to come standard issue to men over fifty. And although no one would mistake him for a gym rat, the muscles of his arms and legs were toned and reasonably defined, belying the number of hours he spent parked behind a desk.

The tan in a bottle seemed to be delivering on its promise, and he was indeed becoming a sun-kissed bronze rather than a garish shade of orange. His protective cover probably wouldn't stand up to close inspection – a tan earned by spending hours in the sun wouldn't be so uniform – but from a distance, and in the short term, it would do. 

After taking another longing look at the big shower, Greg brushed his teeth and considered removing the stubble that was peppering his jawline. He opted to leave it be, in keeping with the 'on holiday' theme. He dressed in a pair of denim shorts and a light blue button down shirt that he had purchased on a Gibraltar getaway, folding away his travel-worn clothes and stuffing them back into his holdall. He considered the practicality of sandals, decided he better wait until he knew just what he was in for, and then stepped back into his well-worn boat shoes. 

When he slipped his sunglasses over his eyes, his transformation was nearly complete. His posture was still too taut for for him to be mistaken for a holiday-maker. Greg shut his eyes and let go of the cares and worries of his everyday life. He conjured up memories of holidays past spent beach-combing and bar hopping and keeping busy doing nothing at all. He shook the tension from his shoulders and relaxed his spine. When he opened his eyes again he nodded approval at his reflection. He no longer looked like an overworked, underpaid, DCI eager to get his man. 

He stepped out of the bathroom just as there was a soft, but authoritative, knock at the door. 

John and Sherlock were both asleep, so Greg peered through the peep-hole, recognised the persistently wary expression of a fellow police officer, and opened the door. 

Inspector Perla Bonny was roughly his height and had the build of someone who didn't spend the majority of her days behind a desk. She had a runner's legs and the sort of biceps that suggested she was capable of throwing a powerful punch. She wore black cotton shorts that skimmed the tops of her knees and a v-neck sleeveless red blouse, that complimented skin that was naturally a deep sun-kissed bronze, and had definitely not come out of a spray can. There was something feline about her. Not just her high, sharply defined cheekbones and heart-shaped face that was framed by a cap of ebony ringlets, but the look of lively interest that animated her expressive, tawny-coloured eyes. 

"You must be the Scotland Yard Man, Lestrade." 

Britain had been the last colonial master of Prospero after it had passed through the hands of Spain and France, and it still drew some of its police officers and other government functionaries from the UK, even though they had more or less gained their independence some twenty-five years ago. Inspector Bonny spoke with the musical, sing-song cadence of a local. Greg wondered if she resented his swanning in on her investigation. 

He smiled at her in his most disarming and (he hoped) charming way and said, "I must be. Greg Lestrade. Please come in." He opened the door, stepped aside to watch her pass, and then glanced back at the big bed and saw that Sherlock was rubbing sleep from his eyes and nudging John back to wakefulness.

"What news, Inspector?" Sherlock's voice was eager, and if he was fighting any residual effect from whatever John had given him, it wasn't evident. 

John almost managed to hide his irritation that once again Sherlock was attempting to spring from his sickbed. He sighed "Greg, could you – " 

"Oh. Right." Reluctantly, Greg diverted his attention long enough from Inspector Bonny to assist Sherlock to his feet and spot him as he limped over to greet his guest. 

John finally conceded his own injury and retrieved a cane from his bedside. It clicked against the tiles as he joined the others in the living area. Seeing that Sherlock had no intention of indulging in social niceties he said, "Inspector Perla Bonny, this is Detective Chief Inspector Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard." 

Greg stuck out his hand. "Glad to know you." 

"Chief Inspector." Perla Bonny's grip was firm and competent. She returned his smile with a polite one of her own that said she was on the clock, and wasn't about to be distracted, especially by a visiting senior officer. 

So much for mutual love at first sight. 

Greg dropped her hand and tried not to think about how nice it had felt clasped against his. 

"The marina is still a shambles," Perla said, getting straight to the point. "Small boats upturned. Fishing boats damaged. All charters will be cancelled for another two or three days. No one is going anywhere by boat." 

"What about a plane?" Greg asked. He had, after all, flown in only an hour earlier. 

Perla shook her head. "Adderson can't get out on a commercial flight, he's been flagged in the system. If his destination is still Fortuna then he would have to go by single engine plane or helicopter, and according to air traffic control, the landing strip on the island has been restricted to essential traffic only." 

"So if he can't get off the island," John asked. "Where is he?"

Into the weighted silence, Greg sneezed. It was a welcome relief. His nose had been itching ever since he had arrived at the bungalow. He sneezed a second time, even more explosively. "Sorry, he gasped, and then went into the bathroom for a tissue. 

He blew his nose, sneezed, and blew his nose again, hoping that he wasn't coming down with something. Carefully, he probed his neck glands and then stuck out his tongue. There didn't appear to be anything wrong with either. His eyes were somewhat bloodshot, but that was to be expected. He had been on the hop since getting John's SOS. 

"Are you all right?" 

Perla Bonny stood in the doorway. She was appraising him thoughtfully with narrowed eyes, probably wondering what viruses he had been infected with during the hours he had spent on the plane, cramped and confined and breathing the recirculated air that had passed through the respiratory tracts of a hundred other people. 

Greg started to answer, but he felt another explosive sneeze coming on. He held up his hand and then ducked his head, grabbing for his ribs to keep them stable as he cleared his sinuses. 

"Yeah." He wiped his nose and binned the tissue, and then washed his hands again. "Must be the local pollen. I had the same thing happen once when I investigated a murder in the exotic plant house at Kew Garden." 

Perla smiled at him sympathetically. "You need a bowl of sopa de pollo to clear your head. And an antihistamine." 

"Sopa de pollo?" Greg frowned. He had a rudimentary grasp of Spanish at the best of times. "Chicken soup?" It seemed for the moment he wasn't going to blow his head off with another explosive bout of sneezing, but he pulled a handful of tissues from the box as insurance, and stuffed them into the pocket of his shorts.

"But not any chicken soup," she explained as they walked back into the main portion of the suite. "Ours is thick, more like a stew. It's filled with things like corn and sweet potato, and flavoured with spices and scotch bonnet chillies."

Greg remembered his last encounter with a scotch bonnet and what it it had done to his insides. He wondered how he could avoid trying the soup without insulting Perla. He smiled, with what he hoped seemed like enthusiasm, and said, "It sounds delicious." 

They appraised one another for a long moment and Greg began to think that his sudden trip to the Caribbean wasn't going to be all work after all, when another volley of sneezes put paid to the moment and Perla became all business again. "Maybe Doctor Watson has something he can give you?"

As luck would have it, John and Sherlock were both taking antihistamines to help lessen the itch of their sunburns. After giving Greg a cursory once over, John tapped a couple of tablets from a bottle and handed them over. "You should feel more yourself in a little while, but avoid operating heavy machinery in case they make you drowsy," he cautioned. 

They drove on the wrong side of the road on Prospero, and from what little he had seen, used rules that would take longer than a few days to fathom. Greg decided to leave any driving to Perla, realised that was a thought that could be taken multiple ways, and sighed to himself, recognising the first symptoms of a distracting fascination with his counterpart. He had been too long stuck in a romantic dry spell, and between the soft trade-winds and the Inspector's frank scrutiny, it was getting difficult to keep his mind on the case. "Right, he replied, dragging his thoughts back to business, and nodded his head for good measure. 

_Focus, Greg,_ he counselled his libidinous self. _Peaky Adderson's whereabouts first. Investigating Perla Bonny, afterwards._

"What makes you think Adderson was bound for Fortuna?" Greg asked Sherlock. "You never said."

Sherlock shrugged. "No, I don't suppose I did. I learned that Adderson's grandmother, Adela Vasquez was born there. And that when she died, she left her eldest grandson all her worldly possessions, including the ancestral home that she had never relinquished, despite emigrating to the UK in 1985."

Greg frowned at the revelation. There was nothing about Peaky to suggest that he was anything but pure London, blood and bone. His accent was barrow-boy, not Faux-macain. And with his pale skin and sandy blond hair, no one would ever guess his antecedents had been at least partially Caribbean. "I won't waste time asking how you found that out." 

The Yard had run a background check. Standard procedure. But it hadn't extended as far as looking into the real estate holdings of dead relations. Greg wondered what other juicy titbits they had missed. He ducked his head against a sneeze that didn't come, wiped his nose anyway, and asked, "So if he had a place to run to, why didn't he go straight there?"

"I can answer that." Perla pulled a smartphone from her pocket and slid her finger over the screen to unlock it. A few slides and taps later, she extended the device to Greg. 

"Houses on Fortuna must be lived in, otherwise the jungle tries to take back the land. An occasional caretaker, such as Mrs Vasquez-Adderson employed, would face an uphill battle to keep the place habitable."

The photos, pulled from what appeared to be the property tax assessor's files, showed a modestly-sized house made larger by a wrap-around porch. The windows were boarded up against the elements, and at some point, not too long before the photos must have been taken, someone had tried to hack a large and vigorous pink bougainvillea back into some semblance of order with only a limited degree of success. Fresh green tendrils were already creeping their way through the porch's railings and up the wall to the left of the front door. 

"Last week a crew of renovators started work on the house," Perla said. "So Sherlock was right, the grandmother's home was Adderson's intended hideaway."

"Except for shooting his rivals, Peaky Adderson isn't exactly a DIY sort," Greg commented as he scanned through the rest of the photos. Whoever took on renovating the house was in for a job of work. Dealing with overambitious plant life would only the beginning of their labours. "Paint fumes and floor varnish and all that would give him headache, and from there it wouldn't be long before he'd imagined himself a brain tumour."

"If only we'd known about the state of the house earlier." John sounded bitter at the omission in Sherlock's otherwise painstaking research. 

"The Assessor's records aren't online," Sherlock retorted with a huff of annoyance. "Otherwise I would have adjusted my plans accordingly." 

"We know he's not here under his own name," Greg said to pull the discussion back onto track. "Immigration would have bagged him for us otherwise. What name did he use to hire the work crew?"

Perla extended her palm. Greg was careful not to brush his fingers against hers as he returned the mobile. Another series of manipulations and she turned the screen so that he could see a copy of a document. "The house was purchased almost immediately after Adela Vasquez-Adderson's death by a management company, Sunshine Holdings, headquartered in the Cayman Islands." 

"A shell company," Sherlock pronounced, just in case the rest of them hadn't work that out for themselves. 

"With a name like _Sunshine Holdings_ what else would it be? Still, someone has to be engaging the contractors and directing the work," Greg said. 

"Indeed." Sherlock had a look in his eyes which suggested he had come up with a clever plan. Greg tried not to groan out loud. With the detective and John out of commission, no doubt he and Perla would be the central players. He hoped whatever Sherlock had in mind wouldn't end up with them both getting a bollocking by their respective Supers. "Which is why you, Lestrade, will assume the persona of a recent retiree looking to find his own place in the sun."

"How is that going to help?" John asked as Greg sneezed again.

"Because, John," Sherlock said as if it were obvious. "Good contractors use their current projects as tools to sell their services. If we identify which establishment is doing the work on the house on Fortuna, then we can use that information to get closer to Adderson." 

Greg's sneezing fits were rapidly abating under whatever was in the tablets John had given him. He wiped his nose again and tried to distract himself from the residual itching by focusing on the problem of where Peaky might have gone to ground or how else they might pick up his trail. Sherlock's contractor idea was a good one, but there was no telling how many levels of separation there were between Peaky and whoever was his agent on the island. A thought occurred to him. He suddenly felt very thick and he smacked his forehead at the obviousness of it. 

"All these plants and things," Greg said. "Surely I can't be the only one to come over with hay-fever at the first sniff of exotic flora." 

John's eyes widened as he jumped aboard Greg's train of thought, and even Sherlock's expression grew interested. 

"What if Peaky had a similar reaction upon arrival?" 

"If he is as big of a baby as his reputation suggests," Perla said, "he would go straight to a doctor under the impression he had some kind of dreaded tropical disease." 

"There was a doctor's clinic only a few steps away from the health club where Sherlock and I were kidnapped," John said. He shrugged. "I noticed out of habit." 

"So maybe we should skip the undercover routine for now, and go ask a few questions." A simple, straightforward, enquiry. Now that was an idea Greg could get behind. 

"I agree." Perla nodded her head decisively, as if she was already working out her line of enquiry, and a counter-argument in case Sherlock protested. "Why don't I drop you at your lodgings?" she said to Greg. "After I sort out the paperwork with the magistrate, I'll collect you and we can talk to the people at the clinic."

It sounded like a good, workable plan. From his expression, Sherlock wasn't entirely happy with being overruled, and reflexively, Greg felt a twist of worry knot his stomach over how he might react because he hadn't got his way. He raked his gaze over John's face to see if he shared Greg's concerns, and saw he looked resigned to whatever happened next. 

"It won't hurt anything to look in on the doctor's office," Greg said. "Besides, it will give me a chance to get some exposure to the sun, and make my fake tan more realistic." 

John shot him a look of thanks and then he escorted them towards the door. "If it doesn't work then we'll try it Sherlock's way," Greg said as he shouldered his holdall. 

John leant against the wall for support. "You won't get an argument from me." He put his hand against Greg's arm. "Just work fast. You know how impatient he can be, especially when things are out of his control." 

Greg knew. Too well. Time hadn't tempered all of Sherlock's reckless proclivities. He was still capable of throwing a cat amongst the pigeons if he wanted to get to the bottom of a case. "We'll be in touch," he promised, and then he followed Perla down the garden path to the car park.

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

* * * * * 

Gratefully, John shut the door after the pair of police officers. He was tired and he could tell that Sherlock was getting excited at the prospect that they might finally have a line on their quarry. Unfortunately, because of his concussion, drugging Sherlock into oblivion wasn't really a viable option. He needed to find some other means of distraction.

Sherlock sneezed theatrically. He had moved back to the bed while John was showing Greg and Perla out and was clutching the blanket to his chest.

John sighed. He could practically see the wheels in Sherlock's head turning. "That sounded terrible." 

"Excellent!" Sherlock sounded delighted. 

John sighed again. If he didn't think fast he was going to be in for it. "No, not that kind of terrible. The 'shouldn't even be allowed in a Christmas Panto' kind of terrible. He limped over to the bed and collapsed upon it. "I know you could probably bleach your hair with some herbs from the garden – "

"Lemons from the fruit bowl, actually," Sherlock interjected. 

"Whatever," John said tiredly. "I stand corrected. But even if you were to swap your crutches for a wheelchair, you're in no shape to go up against Peaky or his muscle." He reached out and took Sherlock's good hand in his. "Believe me, it pains me to say it, because I would really, _really_ like to get a line on them before the police so I could drop them down the shaft of a sea cave. But we have to be realistic here." 

They lay that way for a time, stewing in their frustration. John looked up at the slowly revolving fan blades and thought, _What a waste of a really fantastic bed._

They had had one amazing night where they had exploited every inch of the king-sized sleeping platform – bed really did seem too prosaic a term for the state of the art, fully adjustable, gel and memory foam expanse on which they reclined. A touch of a button could independently elevate each sleeper's head to their desired degree of incline and the surface itself could be made firmer or softer. Given their injuries, that feature alone had been a godsend. After their escape from the turbulent sea, they had adjusted both sides to their softest setting and let the mattress cradle their bruised and battered bodies as they recovered from their near drowning. 

But it was difficult to manoeuvrer on such a pillow-like softness. Fortunately, Sherlock had left the remote control in the centre pocket of the headboard, instead of on the bedside table. With a painful stretch, John retrieved the device and inflated the surface to a more easy to navigate level of firmness, and then raised the head of his side of the bed to match Sherlock's.

Sherlock observed, as he always did, but offered no comment as John used the advantage of his position. "Just relax," he whispered against Sherlock's mouth before kissing him very gently.

Sherlock raised his good hand and ran a contemplative fingertip along John's jawline. John turned his face into the caress and then he kissed Sherlock's palm. 

He loved Sherlock's hands. They were elegantly formed and although the word 'clever' had become hackneyed from overuse, when applied to Sherlock's fingers, it was an accurate descriptor. The way he used them in his work, running them contemplatively over surfaces, or sifting material between his sensitive fingertips to determine the composition and origin, it was if he could see things by touch. 

As he kissed each digit in turn and lightly sucked it between his lips, John thought of other times, in other beds, when Sherlock had used his extraordinary abilities to play John's body like he played his violin, using exactly the perfect pressure and rhythm to stir exactly the reaction he desired. 

John wasn't without skill in that department. Though they lacked Sherlock's elegance, he too had sensitive hands. He used them now to arouse Sherlock with feather-light caresses, knowing that even the sun-damaged portions of skin could be made to feel pleasure, if his touch was sufficiently gentle.

"John." His name was uttered with a genuine sense of regret. "Work."

"Let the police do their bit." John silenced any additional protest with another, and much deeper, kiss. One that after a moment's hesitation was reciprocated.

When they parted, Sherlock offered his throat. John pressed kisses to the underside of the stubble-roughened jawline, and sucked each earlobe in turn, as he carefully massaged the overworked muscles that were supporting Sherlock's broken clavicle. 

Sherlock sighed, equal parts pain and pleasure. John knew the feeling. The paradoxical need for damaged flesh and abused muscles to be touched even when it hurt. He used his good hand to massage the knots from Sherlock's shoulders, wishing he could unbind his wrist so that he could do more. Unfortunately, Sherlock wasn't the only one facing down a month or more of recovery time from their misadventure. He would have to make do, and find a way around his own physical limitations.

John shifted, ignoring the protests of his braced knee, and those of his other bruised and over-extended muscles, as he scooted lower, easing his weight onto his less injured side so that he could ghost kisses against Sherlock's livid skin. With a gentle tug on the belt, the dressing gown was no longer an obstacle. It parted with barely a whisper. John elicited a strangled gasp as he used the tip of his tongue to trace over the rise of a nipple, and looked up to read Sherlock's expression. His face was drawn in constricted lines. "Too much?" 

Sherlock nodded. "Any other time – " 

"I know." John finished the thought in his head. _Under other circumstances._ Normally, Sherlock liked having his chest played with. He especially enjoyed having his nipples pinched hard and then soothed with broad strokes of John's tongue. But sunburn had over-sensitised the nerve endings, turning a pleasurable sensation into something tortuous. 

Regretting his miscalculation, John moved on, opting to lavish his efforts on Sherlock's less sun-abused waist and the tops of his thighs. He paid special attention to the tight muscles of his hips and lower back, pressing into knots until they loosened and the muscles became pliant under his fingertips. 

Sherlock hummed his approval, short circuiting the increasingly remorseful thoughts that were distracting John from his otherwise pleasurable task. Even though he hadn't known at the time they were working a case, he shouldn't have dropped his guard as completely as he had. Somehow he should have known that even thousands of miles from London, they were vulnerable. 

"Stop chastising yourself, John." Sherlock's voice was an impatient rumble. "Our current situation was of my making, not yours." 

Which was true, but didn't entirely assuage John's guilt.

He took a breath and then another one, matching the timing of his inhalations and expirations to Sherlock's. "I hate it when you go all psychic on me." He glanced up at Sherlock and saw the curve of a self-satisfied smile bowing his lips. 

"No you don't. You are, however, frustrated that after all of our years together you can't help but to be impressed, even though you know my methods."

Bested yet again, John blew out a breath against Sherlock's inner thigh. Its intensity made Sherlock shiver and he spread his legs a bit wider in silent invitation. 

"I bet I can tell what you're thinking now." John blew out again, this time against Sherlock's scrotum. In reply, Sherlock clutched at the sheets with his good hand and flexed his hips upward, urging John to action. 

Rather than obey, to take the rapidly hardening shaft into his mouth and lavish attention upon it, John opted to tease. He pressed wet kisses against the inside of Sherlock's thighs and then blew air over the spots, and followed that with a gliding caress. He played with Sherlock's testicles, massaging them. Kissing them. Even nipping lightly. He stroked firmly beneath the scrotum, stimulating the prostate from without. Finally, when he had Sherlock writhing, John took the head of his penis between his lips and then drew it slowly into his mouth. 

"God, yes," Sherlock sighed as John began to suck and lap in earnest.

When they had first arrived at the bungalow, there were welcome baskets scattered in the various rooms filled with various things to make their stay more enjoyable. In the bathroom, included with the usual toiletries, was an array of skin care products especially formulated for the intense Caribbean sun. Since their return from the pirates' cavern they had made liberal use of the tubes of aloe vera gel and the large pot of vitamin-enriched cocoa butter-based cream. All the ingredients were, much to John's current delight, completely edible, and he savoured the taste and scent of chocolate as he lapped and sucked. 

For a time, he forgot his pain. He forgot the case. The only thoughts in John's head were those of what he could do to make Sherlock feel good. He used his hands, his lips, his tongue to stimulate all the places he knew Sherlock liked best, shutting the door, at least for a little while, on the outside world. 

Sherlock's grip tightened on the back of his neck in warning. John drew a breath and then gently squeezed the base of the shaft, even as he began to lick furiously at the head. 

Sherlock moaned. He begged, "Please." 

John relented, and shifted his grip to Sherlock's thighs, steadying them both as Sherlock began to spurt warm and creamy semen against his tongue. 

When it was over, John stayed where he was. He felt Sherlock's penis diminish, and his body go lax. He looked up, saw the relaxed and contented look that he had hoped to evoke, and smiled too.

"Thank you." Sherlock's voice was a low purr. "That was indescribably good. I only regret I am in no position to return the favour." 

With a final soft kiss, John withdrew. He crawled up the mattress until he could comfortably curl at Sherlock's side and sought his lips. "I know you'll make it up to me." 

His efforts had tired him. He snuggled as close as he could to Sherlock and shut his eyes, allowing the sultry air and Sherlock's soft breathing to lull him back to sleep.

* * * * *

The surgery held late afternoon hours so they were still closed when Perla returned to pick up Greg after obtaining the warrant. She decided instead to give him a short tour of the island and take him to lunch at a ramshackle harbour-side cafe that boasted a fantastic view of the waterfront.

Since sopa de pollo was evidently a treat reserved for evenings and weekends, they ordered the catch of the day and watched as the chef/proprietor, Papa Leon, took a pair of small silvery fish from a bed of crushed ice, cut them into fillets, and then tossed them into a large iron skillet, into which he had already poured a dollop of coconut oil and a sprinkling of an herb and spice blend from a large, re-purposed coffee tin. He was one of those big men who was surprisingly light on his feet. He had a misshapen nose and a cauliflower ear. "Ex-boxer?" he said softly to Perla.

She nodded. "Until he got involved with the wrong promoter who wanted him to take a fall." 

_Pity,_ Greg thought. Even a decade past his prime he had the build and grace of a contender. 

"Despite his experience, he still believes in the sport. Enough so he runs a youth program at the local gym when he's not cooking."

While the fish sizzled, Greg took in the view, mindful that it was possible that Peaky Adderson or one of his boys was lurking nearby. He didn't make any recognisable faces, but he did observe Perla raise an eyebrow at a black man with a stringy build and well worn clothing who strolled along the promenade selling bead necklaces and other trinkets, along with snacks and cold drinks from an antiquated hand cart. 

The man met her gaze, shook his head, and moved on. 

"One of yours, I take it." 

Perla nodded. "My eyes and ears on this part of the island. It appears your Mr Adderson has gone completely to ground." 

Greg frowned and contemplated the glass of ice tea in front of him. "He's got to be here some place." He got an idea that made his stomach twist even if lunch was completely free of scotch bonnet chillies. "Unless he and his boys left the island before the storm hit? What if they kidnapped Sherlock and John, dumped them, and then kept right on going. If not to Fortuna, then somewhere else?"

Perla frowned as she contemplated the view of fisherman and tourist boat operators who were busily cleaning up from the storm. "Felicidad is a bird sanctuary. No one lives there except for parrots and a couple of park rangers. If they had tried to escape by boat they would have very likely been caught up in the same storm that nearly killed your friends." She shook her head, and the small gold studs she wore in her ears glinted in the sunshine. "I don't see it." 

A shadow loomed over them, temporarily ending the discussion as Papa Leon slid two plates of pan fried fish onto the table. A mound of multicoloured coleslaw and a heap of fried plantains kept the fish company on the battered tin plate. 

Perla smiled up at the big man. "It looks wonderful, Papa." 

"You enjoy," he rumbled back, and then left them to their lunch. 

All thoughts of Peaky Adderson were temporarily abandoned as Greg inhaled the complicated aromas wafting up from the plate in front of him. Not just coconut and a myriad of spices, only some of which he could put a name to, but the refreshing scent of fresh lime juice, which must have been squeezed over the top of the fish only seconds before it was served. 

Wary of the effect spicy food could have on his over-taxed sinuses, Greg took a hesitant bite. "This is delicious," he enthused, helping himself to a more generous forkful. 

"I'm glad you like it," Perla replied. "Papa Leon is sort of a surrogate uncle. I'd be insulted on his behalf if you didn't like his cooking." 

_Beautiful and protective,_ Greg thought as he sampled the fried plantain. He tried to think of a conversational opener that wouldn't sound like he was hitting on a junior colleague. "Bonny," he said at last. "I know that name." Vague details of a sensational cocaine seizure floated close to the surface of his memory. "You weren't involved in a huge drugs bust about six months ago, by any chance, were you?"

Perla chuckled, and then smiled in a way that Greg interpreted as relieved. "That was me. Five tons of souvenir iguana salt and pepper shakers, filled with white powder, and meant for islands all over the Caribbean. That was a good day." 

"It was," Greg agreed. "But when I first mentioned that your name seemed familiar, you got kind of a look. Did you think I meant something else?"

She nodded. "Normally when people realise the name is familiar it's because they think I'm related to Anne Bonny, the notorious female pirate."

"And are you?" Greg asked. Now that her name was raised, he recalled childhood stories of a flame-haired pirate who was just as ruthless as the men she sailed with.

Perla shook her head. "There were outlaws in my family. Many families on Prospero did at least a little smuggling or pirating to make ends meet. But as far as we know, Anne belonged to another branch of the Bonny family." 

Greg washed down more fish with a swallow of tea. "She was reputedly a pretty tough customer. Do you ever get tempted to claim her as a relation?"

Perla raised an eyebrow. "To enhance my own reputation as a tough customer, you mean?" She smiled, and it was just a little bit naughty. "Only when we get new recruits from the UK who think they know all there is to know about island policing just because they spent a few months working on council estates where kids listen to Bob Marley and – " She slipped into a heavy Jamaican accent. " – talk like dis." 

They both laughed at the idiocy of rookies. 

It was easy to commiserate. Though his murder squad had the luxury of picking from seasoned and experienced detectives, there was a persistent threat of new constables mucking up his crime scenes. "I'll bet you set them straight in a hurry." 

"The islands and their peoples have their commonalities," Perla said. "We were all under the colonial rule of Britain or Europe, and slave culture and piracy are a part of our shared history, but other than that?" She shrugged. "Every island has its own cultures and traditions. Some are imported from Europe, but most are all our own." 

She toyed with the last of her coleslaw. "And what of you, Chief Inspector? Any notorious relations in your background?"

"Not notorious as such," Greg said as he pushed his plate away. "I come from a family of coppers. My father was a copper, and his father was a copper. In fact, there's been a Lestrade of the Yard going all the way back to Victorian times." 

"That's quite impressive," Perla said, and she sounded like she meant it.

 _Impressive or unimaginative?_

Greg loved his job, but there were times if he wondered if he hadn't entered the police service because of the weight of tradition, rather than because of a genuine calling. He looked at the people putting the waterfront to rights, and over at Papa Leon chatting with his customers, and wondered if he wouldn't have been happier bucking the family tradition. Of course if he had become something else, a stockbroker or a school teacher, he wouldn't be sitting outside on a beautiful day having lunch with an attractive woman. 

_Who was a colleague with important local knowledge,_ Greg reminded himself firmly, as he tried not to notice that Perla had really lovely dimples when she smiled up at Papa Leon.

* * * * * 

Peaky Adderson watched a flock of small yellow and grey birds flit about the garden without an apparent care in the world, and he envied them.

Fleeing London for the Caribbean had seemed like a smart move two weeks ago when Tony Gatti had put out the word that he would pay fifty large to whoever whacked Peaky – fifteen for his lieutenants – and provide a recognisable body part as proof of the deed. 

Gatti paid out for the head of Little Marco. The other two hundred and fifty pounds of his corpse had been left in the rubbish skip behind Blue Moon, Peaky's nominal headquarters. When the deed to the house on Fortuna had arrived in the post, along with a lot of other papers from his Gran's solicitor, his next move had seemed pre-ordained. Leaving town – at least until he could negotiate a truce with Tony – was a sound manoeuvrer. 

He thought he had been careful when he and his two most trusted employees had slipped out of London in the back of a Paris-bound lorry. He had shaved his head. JJ and Mac had dyed their hair, despite his warning about carcinogens. They had flown out to the island using false passports, and cheated the immigration authority's facial recognition software by using theatrical putty and prosthetics to alter the shapes of their faces.

But he hadn't counted on the house in Fortuna being a wreck. Boards over the windows had come down and bats had taken up residence and brought spiders and other creepy crawlies with them as houseguests. Peaky shuddered at the memory of the snaps JJ had taken. Even if they cut away a hundred feet of jungle to keep further incursions at bay, they were going to have to steam clean and disinfect the insides of the place to guarentee it was a fit place to live.

He dabbed at his bandaged nose carefully with a tissue and then threw it into a bin that was already half full. He squirted hand sanitiser onto his palm, sniffed the lemon scent – hoping it would give him a head-clearing boost – and sneezed again, and after he had gone through the nose blowing and hand sanitising ritual again, Peaky palpitated the glands in his neck. He was relieved to find the swelling hadn't increased since the last time he had checked. The local doctor said sometimes a little swelling wasn't uncommon with allergies, at which point Peaky had stopped listening and started yelling. He wasn't in the habit of being fobbed off by local yokels, and insisted on a more comprehensive battery of tests. 

At the time he had thought the man was a quack, but the plastic surgeon who had made permanent the temporary changes Peaky had made to his face, said it was true. Peaky trusted the surgeon. He liked his patient manner and the way he really listened, instead of glancing up at the clock when he thought no one was looking, like the other guy had. He liked the way he said, 'Of course.' and 'Absolutely, you had every reason to be concerned', when Peaky brought up his fears of having contracted a serious respiratory ailment, because these days, with people zipping from one place to another with no regard for their fellow traveller's health, all sorts of maladies had been let loose amongst the general public.

Now he not only had allergies to contend with, but the threat of infection from his surgery. He had hated going under the knife, even if the knife was a laser beam, and couldn't carry germs on its own. But with a bounty on his head, it had seemed prudent, and after Sherlock Holmes had showed up, Peaky was glad he had marshalled his fears and gone ahead with the procedure. 

He glanced out the window again and sighed, wishing he could chance going out into the bright sunshine. It would help boost his Vitamin D and serotonin levels, which would help his mood, but the surgeon had said it would be best to wait until his face had healed completely before he exposed it to intense UV levels. And even though he wasn't currently infected, black flies and mosquitoes that carried Dengue Fever and Zika virus, and God knew what else, lurked in the garden, just waiting to bite. 

At his Gran's house they were going to install special bug zappers that would attract insects and them fry them to a powder. Peaky glowered. He had paid a packet for his current sanctuary. He wondered why the owners or the management company hadn't sprung for something similar. They had certainly hadn't stinted on the rest of the niceties. "Dopes," he muttered, and then blew his nose again.

He was going to have to move on soon, if not to his Gran's place then somewhere else. Even though JJ and Mac had dealt with Sherlock Holmes and that doctor friend of his, Peaky felt unsafe. If the detective had found them so soon after their arrival on the island that meant that someone back home, his solicitor maybe, had ratted them out. 

Others could be on his trail. Maybe someone looking to cash in on Tony Gatti's bounty would be next. Unconsciously, Peaky raised his hand to his throat. He shivered, thinking of Little Marco's corpse sprawled in the skip, and knew he had to make plans. He rubbed a thin film of sanitiser onto the eyepieces of a pair of binoculars, waited for it to disappear into the rubber, and then looked out past the garden and down onto the town below. From his vantage point he could see nearly the entire marina. 

The place was still a wreck. Sails on boats were down and the water was filled with bobbing flotsam and jetsam. Still, he had to admit that the people who were down there were busting their humps. It looked much better than it had at dawn. By tomorrow or the next day, charter service would be able to resume again and Peaky could leave Prospero behind him.

* * * * * 

Even before the tropical storm had hit the island, Prospero Health and Wellness Centre had been undergoing a bit of a facelift. A contractor's scaffolding had been erected around the building, and signs were posted advising pedestrians to watch out for falling tiles. A few lay broken on the pavement, but for the most part, it looked like the roofers had done a solid job, and the building was otherwise undamaged, even if it was in need of the fresh coat of sunny lemon yellow paint which a very tanned woman in white coveralls was applying to the walls with a long-handle roller brush.

Perla greeted the woman with an upraised hand. "Cecily, how goes the business?" 

"Adelante, mon chérie. Adelante," the woman called back, using the amalgamation of languages that islanders tended to use amongst themselves. She set her paint roller into a metal pan and used the opportunity to mop her brow with a faded blue kerchief before eyeing Perla, and especially Greg, curiously. "And what brings you here today?"

"A couple of things." Perla tipped her head towards Greg. "My friend needs something stronger than what they sell over the counter for his hay fever."

To sell the story, Greg rubbed his spray-tanned nose gingerly with a wad of tissues, and then sneezed into them.

"But as long as I've got you," Perla said, as if an afterthought had suddenly struck her, "can I talk to you for a minute?"

The painter, Cecily, nodded, and her expression grew even more curious. She put a cover over the paint pan to keep the contents from drying out and clambered down a ladder positioned at the end of the scaffolding.

Since he hadn't been identified as a police officer, Greg decided to fade out. He stepped into the air-cooled clinic, took his place in a queue of people waiting to sign in for their afternoon appointments, and watched as Perla pulled out her mobile to do the swipe and tap routine. 

The painter studied the mobile as the two women talked, swiping the face panel herself every so often. Her brow was constricted and she frowned in concentration. Greg tried to read their lips, but they had reverted to patois, and he couldn't follow it. The queue crept forward, and he hoped that Perla would conclude her conversation before he had to take on the imposing looking receptionist on his own. 

Fortunately, the women hugged, spoke a few more words, and then Perla walked into the clinic and up to the counter, just as Greg smiled at the large, no-nonsense looking woman in a rather old-fashioned nurses uniform who was directing the flow of patients and staff like a Sargent Major. She wore a brass name badge that proclaimed her Mrs Imari.

Perla brought out her warrant card and a pale blue document from the satchel she had slung over her shoulder. "We need a few moments of your time, please." 

Mrs Imari looked over the bridge of her glasses as she inspected both the warrant card and the magistrate's warrant. She pulled a face that suggested exactly what she thought of their unscheduled appearance, glanced down at the diary that was open on her desk, and made an adjustment. "You can go in after the doctor talks to the next patient." 

Perla nodded her thanks, but then she said, "You're here all the time, right?" Mrs Imari's expression suggested that was a very dumb question but she didn't otherwise comment. "Perhaps we can avoid disrupting Dr Felix's schedule if you can help us?" 

Which apparently was the right thing to say. It might have been Doctor Felix's name painted on the side of the building, but it was clear that Mrs Imari was the one who ran the place. Greg doubted a single thing happened in the clinic that she didn't know about.

"What do you want to know?" 

Perla pulled her mobile out again. "We are looking for this man. Has he visited the clinic any time in the last few weeks?"

Mrs Imari glanced down at the screen and her lip curled derisively. She nodded. "Oh, I remember him all right. He's bald now, by the way, and his friends have coloured their hair." She reversed the mobile so that Greg and Perla could see and then pointed at a surveillance photo that had been taken as the trio were leaving Club Blue Moon. "Blond and mousy brown, they are. He was healthy as a horse and carried on as if he was dying. Caused a row, he did, him and his two big friends. I was on the verge of calling Chester to get them to leave the clinic when they stormed out."

"Chester?" Greg asked softly. 

"The bouncer at the pub across the street," Perla explained. "Our constables are spread pretty thin, so sometimes, when it's necessary, we use volunteers to hold the line until they can arrive on scene."

Greg nodded. "Ah," he said, and decided this was one of those differences between Prospero and London policing techniques that they had discussed over lunch. He felt himself getting excited at the prospect of finally getting a line on Peaky's whereabouts. "Can we see the patient record?" 

Mrs Imari tapped buttons on her computer keyboard. A printer whirred to life and began to spit out pages. When the record had finished printing she handed them over the counter. 

"It says he's staying at the Excalibur." Greg looked over at Perla. "Where's that?" 

"About a mile from here," Perla replied as she plucked the pages from Greg's fingers and skimmed over them herself. "You were right about the hay fever." She chuckled. "It says here that Mr Wells – (Perla's tone suggested air quotes as she read the name.) – wasn't happy with the diagnosis, and insisted on a further battery of tests to rule out a more serious underlying cause for his symptoms." 

Greg glanced around the clinic. New paint job aside, even though it was scrupulously clean and run with military efficiency, it didn't exactly look like a state of the art medical facility. "So what did the doctor do?" 

Perla read further. "He drew some blood and suggested they wait on the test results." She riffled the pages. "Which came back and seem perfectly normal to me." She pointed at the results. "See? Everything in the normal bracket." 

More people were coming in to the waiting room, and Mrs Imari was starting to get a look on her face that suggested if they didn't vacate the counter she was going to call Chester on them. Greg smiled politely and said, "I think we've taken up enough of your time." 

"But if Mr Wells contacts you again – " Perla dug a card out of her handbag. "– would you ring me on this number?" 

Mrs Imari inspected the card, nodded, and pinned it to the corner of her diary, and then called out, "Mr Sanchez, the doctor will see you now."

Utterly dismissed, Greg hoped they might have better luck at the Excalibur.

To be concluded...


	3. Chapter 3

* * * * * 

The Excalibur had seen better days, but it was still a nicer accommodation than the B and B the Met had booked him into. Greg eyed the families of holiday-goes chattering away in a half a dozen different discernible languages and decided that the hotel had probably featured prominently on someone's 'value for money' website. Or maybe it was popular because people felt at home. He watched a porter break out into a wide smile as he greeted a couple and hug them like they were old friends.

Greg tried to imagine his landlady – the one who had barked out a list of house rules before she had even shut the door behind him – giving him a welcoming hug, shuddered, and wondered if maybe he shouldn't enquire about vacancies while he was talking to the desk clerk. He doubted the Excalibur would lock him out if he missed curfew, or pack his bag for him and leave it on the doorstep – as Mrs Watkins had intimated she might – if she found beer or spirits in his room while she was cleaning.

"What are you thinking?" Perla asked as she pulled her mobile out in preparation of showing off the photos of Peaky and his lads. 

Greg looked around again at the happy families. "It's a little down market for Peaky." He watched a small boy with a green-coloured ice cream cone lick his sticky fingers before gripping the escalator railing for a ride up to the next level. "I'm just having a hard time seeing him willingly hiding out here."

Perla shrugged. "Desperate times and all that?" 

They certainly were as far as Peaky was concerned. "There is that," Greg conceded before they greeted the desk clerk and went into their routine. 

The clerk, whose name was Marnie, frowned at the picture and said she didn't recognise the men but according to the files, there had been a Mr Byron Wells booked into the hotel for two nights, ten days prior, and he had registered as part of a party of three.

"Any forwarding address?"

Marnie punched more button on her keyboard, and then shook her head. "No. Sorry." 

"The names of his two companions?" Perla asked. 

Marnie consulted the record. "James West and Bill Taylor." 

It wasn't much, but it was more than they had come in with, so Greg wasn't over disappointed. They thanked the clerk and turned to go, pausing to observe as a small parade of brightly decked out musicians, carrying instrument cases and a steel drum, proceeded up the escalator. 

Marnie watched him watch and said, "For the party tonight." 

Greg thought again of Mrs Watkins and her curfew and decided then and there, even if he had to foot the bill himself, he was going to check in.

* * * * * 

Perla waited in the car as Greg collected his holdall from the Plumeria Guest House, and used the time to review the events of the day. When her Chief Superintendent had called her into his office and informed her she had been selected for a special assignment, she had been pleased. When he had further explained that the assignment was to liaise with a senior Scotland Yard officer and the world famous private detective Sherlock Holmes, it had thrown her for a loop. Not to knock the underworld fraternity of Prospero, but they tended towards straightforward criminal enterprise. Smuggling cocaine in souvenir iguana salt and pepper shakers had been, relatively speaking, a stroke of inspired creativity.

So perhaps, when presented with the facts of the case, it was all right to feel just a little disappointed. Lester "Peaky" Adderson wasn't in the same league as James Moriarty. He was just a two-bit hoodlum they were hoping to return to England so he could be persuaded to testify against some other two-bit hoodlum. 

Meeting Sherlock Holmes wasn't exactly turning out to be the high point of her career, either. Maybe it was because all the stories had built him up to mythic proportions, but the querulous man, who had treated her like a clerk rather than a senior police officer, had been more of an irritant than an inspiration. It was disappointing to learn that he was still a human being like the rest of them, fallible and capable of being taken unaware.

Greg opened the boot and stowed his holdall. He got in and gave her a curious look as he slid into the passenger seat. "What is it?" 

Perla drew a breath and then shrugged. "I was just thinking about how Sherlock Holmes was taken unaware." 

"Not exactly living up to his reputation?" Greg sounded amused.

Perla shook her head. Well, actually, no he wasn't. Sherlock Holmes was supposed to have nearly preternatural instincts and intuition, but that wasn't the point. "Yes and no, but that's not it." Finally she seized on what was bothering her. "How exactly was Adderson able to drug and kidnap him and Dr Watson from the spa? It's an exclusive establishment. Someone couldn't just walk in off the street and spirit another someone, two some-ones in this case, away." 

"Good point." Greg got a faraway look in his eye, like he was mentally exploring different possible scenarios. He shook his head. "Peaky would have had to have had an inside man, and as far as we know, it's just him and his two shadows that left London. Maybe we should go take a look at that spa." 

Her thoughts exactly. Perla cranked the engine of the boxy compact SUV and headed back toward the centre of town.

* * * * *

Although he had an unimpeded view of the sun slipping down to meet the horizon, Sherlock ignored the display of natural beauty that other holiday-goes all over the island were remarking upon. He reclined in a sun lounger with his eyes shut, no longer resting, but restlessly prowling the corridors of his memory palace, pausing from time to time to straighten a picture or pick up pieces of bric-a-brac from the floor and replace them on the proper shelves.

A disordered memory palace was a sign that all was not right with his brain. He knew that of course, as if the persistent low grade headache and occasional bout of dizziness weren't clues enough. The cut on the back of his head hadn't been caused by the fall. Someone had hit him with a piece of wood prior to attempting to dispose of his body. John had found the proof, in the form of a tiny splinter, after their escape. 

The dizzy spells were an inconvenience. The headache could be ignored. But the gap in his memory leading up to their kidnapping was intolerable. He could recollect the spa with its tasteful furnishings and subdued interior lighting. He remembered being escorted into the garden where they were meant to meet with a therapeutic consultant over tea to craft their programme for the rest of the day. He could recall how happy John had been. His anticipation of being thoroughly pampered, and how that had made him feel. Not guilty, exactly, because he hadn't yet confessed that they were on a Busman's holiday, but not entirely comfortable with John's effusive enthusiasm, either. 

But he couldn't remember the actual kidnap, either being removed from the spa or being bundled into a car. He couldn't remember the indignation of being set up. Or of having the shocked moment of realisation that someone had drugged him. 

Sherlock opened a door to an unused room. In it, he began to build the garden. The tall stand of bamboo that shaded the perimeter. The philodendron vines that crept up ficus trees. The tinkle of water droplets falling from a series of concentric stone bowls into a pool at its base. There had been movement in the water below the surface. Tiny fish with silvery bodies. As he watched, they appeared in his recreated fountain. 

There had been the sweet scent of plumeria on the breeze. 

Sherlock recalled the vivid yellow and pink flowers on tall stalks. Below them there had been ginger plants, also in bloom. The surface beneath their feet, as they settled into rattan fan-backed chairs, had been stone. Not cobbles. Large, closely fitted pale gold sandstone slabs.

He glanced around the now transformed space. He could smell the plumeria. He could hear the water falling, and see John's undisguised pleasure as he anticipated what was to come. Together they took a circuit of the garden room and then they settled into the chairs. The day was already hot, even though it was only nine o'clock in the morning. The high curving back of the chairs shaded their faces from what light the riot of plants let through.

John had a menu in his hands. It was large and bound in handmade paper with leaves and flowers worked into the fibres. It was a listing of the various services the spa offered. 

"Listen to this Sherlock." John's voice was amused, but also intrigued. "It says you can get a _Organic Manuka Honey Spa Experience_."

"And what is that?" Sherlock's jaded imagination supplied an image of a person being eagerly drenched in sticky syrup, but he couldn't fathom the slightest therapeutic benefit from such a dowsing.

"Well, first they do a scrub with dead sea salts and large grains of organic crystallised honey to soften and exfoliate the skin. And then – " John chortled. "They coat you with a mixture of mud, herbs and liquid honey, after which they wrap you in warm, wet sheets."

Sherlock considered bringing up the fact that wrapping mental patients in wet sheets as a way to calm them was once an accepted medical practice, but he knew John would then chide him for his lack of enthusiasm. "Sounds delightful," he said instead. "And then?" 

John found his place and began to describe the next phase of the treatment. "After you're rinsed off in a rain bath, whatever that is, they soothe your skin with a sensuous blend of Shea butter that's been infused with more Manuka honey. Which, when combined with a soothing Swedish-style massage, will leave you feeling blissfully refreshed and relaxed." 

None of which (other than the massage) sounded like an improvement over the syrup shower he had first envisioned. "Perhaps something with less mud?" Sherlock suggested just as the sound of a tea trolley rattling over the flag stones interrupted their conversation. 

The recreated garden room flickered. Sherlock's head pivoted sharply up towards the sound of the trolley. He drew a sharp breath, but then caught himself and blew it out slowly as he deliberately relaxed. He couldn't chase the memory, he had to let it come to him. 

The room flickered again, dissolving into fragments and then reassembling, this time with the pieces in the wrong places. Plumeria blooms sprang from philodendron vines. The silvery fish swam up the waterfall, like tiny salmon. John appeared and disappeared, taking the room with him until the scene flickered out entirely. 

Undaunted, Sherlock tried again. Realising he should start earlier, when there were more complete memories on which to build, he brought to mind their arrival at the spa. He felt sun-warmed chrome under his fingers as he opened the glass door of Palm d' Sol Rejuvenation Centre for John, and they stepped into a cool antechamber. 

Two receptionists – 

The first to greet them had been male. Afro-Caribbean. Mid-twenties. Yin Yang symbol branded on his left wrist. Hair cropped close to his skull.

The one at the computer with a Bluetooth headset clipped to her right ear had been female. Blonde hair done in a French Twist. Deep blue eyes. Tinted contact lenses. Dutch accent. On the cusp of thirty. 

– in jade-coloured tunics welcomed them as they signed the registration book. 

A very fit man, barely out of his teens. Also Afro-Caribbean. Shoulder-length hair plaited into cornrows. Dressed in a white wrap-around smock over white trousers.

– escorted them through a public garden area.

 

Clients clad in white terry-cloth dressing gowns.

Eight of them. 

Five women.

Two blonde (one natural). 

Two brunettes.

One gone grey but highlighted with silver from a bottle. 

Ages ranged from mid-thirties to early fifties. 

_None relevant._

Three men.

One with recent hair implants.

One bald. 

One who was fighting male pattern baldness and losing. 

All on the upper end of forty. 

None of them was Adderson or either of his compatriots.

– chatted or sipped tea from tall, frosty-coloured plastic tumblers as they lounged around a rectangular-shaped thalassotherapy pool that sloped from three to five feet in depth. There were jets mounted in the sides of the pool that drove vapour scented like seawater into the air. 

Some of the sunbathers had cucumber slices placed over their eyelids. The bottle blonde and the man with the hair implants both had small bandages taped to their noses. 

At the time he had placed no importance upon the appearance of his fellow spa-goers. Now Sherlock felt the first stirrings of an epiphany. He had chosen the spa over the one that was associated with the all inclusive resort they were staying at because it had an international reputation for excellence. Their masseurs were highly trained in multiple disciplines and the facility itself had won several design and landscape awards. As a retreat to relax and unwind, with or without an _Organic Manuka Honey Spa Experience_ , it had sounded ideal. He hadn't even considered what other services it might offer. 

Sherlock opened his eyes. The sun had set and the stars were beginning to dot a velvet night. Painfully, he got out of the chair and used the crutches that lay at his side to limp inside. John was on the telephone. After a few seconds it became obvious he was talking to Lestrade. 

Room Service had delivered dinner. Two stainless steel covered plates were waiting on the dining table. John had been making tea to go with the meal when the call came in. The pot stood ready and tea leaves were already in the filter waiting for the water to be poured over them. Sherlock restarted the kettle. It ceased to boil just as John ended the call. He seemed excited. 

"Progress?" Sherlock asked as he poured water into the teapot.

John picked up the pot and carried it to the table. Though it was admittedly petty, Sherlock felt a stab of envy that John wasn't wholly reliant on his cane, while he was dependant on either his crutches or the assistance of others to get from one side of the room to the other. 

"Of a sort. Greg and Perla worked out how we might have crossed paths with Peaky Adderson."

* * * * * 

It seemed kind of obvious, Greg thought as he tapped the side of his beer bottle against Perla's. If Peaky was stuck on the island and looking for an upscale place to hide out, why not spend a few days at a spa that also did a little plastic surgery on the side? He could be well assured that every one of his hygiene phobias would be catered to – there would be no sticky-fingered children running around to spread their germs – and at the end of his stay he could walk out with a new face that would fool the scanners at Passport Control. "That was good work you did today."

"We did," she corrected gently. "It just made sense. If Adderson travelled with a personal nurse, then the nurse might be afforded certain courtesies to make his job easier." 

"Like access to the drugs lock up." Greg rolled his eyes and shook his head in remembered disbelief as how the patient services coordinator had explained that because they had so many patrons who travelled with personal physicians or nurses, they provided them a pharmacy to draw common drugs and medical supplies from. "All he had to do was borrow one of those smock things they wear, drug the tea, and then when they were under the influence, slip out a service exit to a waiting car." 

Perla frowned. "But not taxi. Not a hire car. And not one that was reported stolen. Where did they get it from?"

Greg pushed a hand over his face. That was a frustrating detail they hadn't yet sorted. "I don't know." He drank beer and contemplated the chop on the water. Despite it being several days since Tropical Storm Winifred had taken Prospero by surprise, there was still a restless energy churning the ocean. "Maybe they bought one." 

"If it was cash in hand, we'll never trace them that way." Perla sounded frustrated. "There are twenty-five hotels and resorts on this island. And hundreds more guest houses and short term rentals. How are we going to get to all of them before Adderson makes his move?" 

Greg shrugged, and picked up his menu as the waiter approached. He scanned the offerings and decided the fish tacos sounded good. "We won't. But the more we learn about Peaky and the places he and his lads have already been, the more likely it is we'll be able to be there when he pokes his head out of his hole." 

Perla ordered the tacos too and another round of beers and the waiter went away again. She drank some beer and then said, "Do you mind if I ask you something?"

 _'Do you mind if I ask you something?'_ was often the prelude to an awkward or uncomfortable question, but that wasn't always a bad thing. Sometimes awkward conversations led to interesting places. 

"No, of course not." 

"Your hair is grey, which suggest you are comfortable in your own skin," Perla said. "So why the fake tan?"

Definitely not the type of question one expected a junior officer to ask a superior. But it was the sort of question one asked if they were seeking to learn more about someone on a personal level. Maybe she was interested in him as more than a colleague after all. 

"Not my idea," Greg replied. "Sherlock got it into his head that we might have to dive right into undercover work, and having a tan would make me less conspicuous." 

Perla narrowed her eyes. She seemed to be re-evaluating her opinion of him. "Do you always do what Sherlock Holmes tells you to do?"

"No, of course not." Greg found himself mildly insulted, even though it was true that he went along with Sherlock's schemes more than he put his foot down. "But sometimes letting Sherlock think he's calling the shots is a good way to keep him out of my hair when there's actual police work to get done." He realised he sounded like he was slagging Sherlock off, which wasn't his intention. He backtracked and started again. 

"Don't get me wrong. Sherlock is a brilliant detective. He's scary smart. His breadth of knowledge is nothing short of encyclopaedic, and he's deeply intuitive. Working together we make a good team. I've learnt to trust his ideas, even if they do seem a bit mad at times."

Perla looked like she was thinking deep thoughts, so Greg went back to admiring the view of the ocean and thought a few deep thoughts of his own.

* * * * *

Constable Mo Delaney watched the motorbike bearing his sergeant, Jean Moreau, cut through the lanes of cars parked in the long-term lot, and tried not to sigh audibly with relief.

The situation he was currently enmeshed in had accelerated from the lot's parking attendant reporting an incident to the airport's security lead, to the security lead reporting the incident to _him_ , and now he was willingly passing it off higher up the chain of command. He gave the complainant, Felix Morales, an auditor for the Ministry of Tax and Revenue, his most reassuring smile, as he fought the urge to grind his teeth. "I'm sure we'll get this sorted for you now." 

Morales didn't look especially reassured. Mostly he looked annoyed and impatient, and likely to go off on yet another tirade about police inefficiency, possibly ending with a veiled threat about how he should consider looking in to the financial affairs of everyone who had been called to the scene. "I should hope so." He glared meaningfully at the well-worn, chrome-banded, watch on his wrist and tapped his foot as the sergeant stowed his helmet, mopped sweat from his bald head with a bright red kerchief, and exchanged pleasantries with the security lead. 

Sergeant Moreau, Mo knew, was the sort of old-fashioned beat cop who hated doing paperwork, but like to work with people to resolve their problems. He had what seemed like an endless reserve of patience, and was especially good at defusing tense situations. For someone who didn't suffer fools gladly, like himself, watching the Sarge in action was better than hours of classroom instruction and endless role-playing. 

He gestured for Mo to join him. Mo nodded and rolled tension from his shoulders, glad to be away, even if it was just for a few moments, from the stifling air of impatience that their complainant was emanating.

"Stand at my shoulder, one pace behind, and take notes. It makes this sort feel like something's getting accomplished," Moreau said in a gruff whisper. "And straighten your cap. You look like like a taxi driver, not a member of Prospero's Finest." He reached up and clapped Mo on the shoulder, to let him know there was nothing personal about the admonishment, then strode over to Felix Morales. "Mr Morales, I understand you have a bit of a mystery." 

Morales crossed his arms over his chest and huffed out a breath. "There's no mystery about it. As I've explained _repeatedly_ to these other officers, my car has been stolen." 

The sergeant glanced over at the ageing silver Mercedes sedan two spaces from where they were standing. "That car there?" 

"That's right." Morales blew air through his nose in another audible huff, and then, realising that he was finally speaking with someone who had the authority to set the ball in motion, he made an effort to collect himself by resettling his glasses on his long, thin, nose and brushing his fingers over the pencil line that he probably called his moustache. He pulled a notebook from the inside breast pocket of his suit's jacket and flipped the pages. Mo had already seen the notebook, which is why he had called the sergeant. He poised his pen over _his_ notebook and prepared to write it all down again. 

"Ten days ago, I drove myself to the airport and parked in space G14," Morales said. "I made a note of the space number because I often have many things on my mind, and it's good habit to keep a record of important information. It saves time."

The sergeant nodded that he understood and agreed, Mo made a notation about the space number, and Morales continued. "I also wrote down the mileage when I left my house, which is at 43 Pleasant View Landing, and when I parked the car here at the airport. The trip I was about to embark upon was business related, so I kept record of the mileage. I also purchased petrol, and appended the receipt to my log book." He pointed. The sergeant nodded, and Mo made another redundant note in his book. 

"When I returned from my conference," Morales said, winding himself up to a fevered pitch like a solicitor in a courtroom drama, "I went straight to space G14 and found my car was missing and another car was parked in its place. I immediately notified that gentleman – " He pointed at the airport security officer. "He drove me around in that little cart of his until I spotted my car." 

Morales's gaze raked the air dramatically until it rested on the Mercedes. "I put the incident down to a simple error." He looked aggrieved at the notion that he could be fallible. "And I was prepared to write it off until I looked at the odometer and saw the discrepancy in the mileage. There are thirty miles on the odometer that cannot be accounted for. The only conclusion I can reach is that someone has stolen my car and then for reasons I can't fathom, brought it back again." 

The sergeant glanced over at the car thoughtfully and appeared to come to the conclusion that maybe Felix Morales was on to something. When he looked back at Mo it was clear that he wasn't just humouring a nuisance complainant when he said, "I want an evidence technician out here. Also get the gate CCTV going back ten days and take it straight to Inspector Bonny's office." He held out his hand. "And I'll need that logbook. An officer will take your fingerprints and DNA for exclusionary purposes, and then drive you home." 

Felix Morales's jaw dropped. "You're impounding my car?" 

The Sarge nodded. "It's a crime scene." He looked over at Mo sharply. "Get some tape and seal the area off, and then get that CCTV. Move."

Mo moved.

* * * * *

Greg surveyed the wall-sized white board in Perla's office, and the Blu-Tacked photographs and scrawled notations along its surface that formed a rough timeline of Peaky Adderson and his lieutenants' movements since they had arrived on Prospero.

Lester "Peaky" Adderson was now Byron Wells. He had shaved his head and had his nose and eyes altered while staying at Palm d' Sol Spa and Rejuvenation Centre. 

James "JJ" Carter, Adderson's primary body guard, was calling himself James West, and had shown nursing credentials in that name to the registrar at the centre. He had a faded, but still prominent, tattoo on his forearm removed, and coloured his hair a sandy brown.

Dylan "Mac" MacTavish, aka Bill Taylor, Adderson's driver and confidant. He hadn't had any work done other than bleaching his hair. As it was, he wasn't a remarkable man, with a fairly average build and no real distinguishing features other than his skill as a car thief and pickpocket. He had stolen the Mercedes belonging to Felix Morales from the airport's long-term car park, returned it after the kidnapping, and driven off again in a dark blue 2016 Honda Accord, whose registration plate number they didn't have because it had been obscured, and its owner hadn't returned to report it stolen yet. 

Greg cursed the lack of CCTV cameras on the island. More screen shots of the stolen cars might have helped to narrow down the fugitives' whereabouts. Unfortunately, the few traffic cameras in use were restricted to the airport, marina, and the shopping district that catered to day-tripping cruise ship passengers. 

There was a listing of the local hotels and resorts. Half of them had tick marks next to their names, which meant constables had been there to show the photos and see if anyone recognised Adderson or his boys. It was painstaking work, and not going nearly fast enough. They only had another day at the most before normal maritime operations resumed on the island. Even with Perla's informants and other casual assistants lending a hand, it was unlikely they would be able to cover in time all the possible places Adderson and the others might have booked into after leaving the spa. 

Greg glanced at the clock prominently mounted on the wall of the incident room and did a mental calculation. He was supposed to swing by and pick up John and Sherlock and run them into town so that Sherlock could have a scan done on his ankle. He also wanted to speak with some of the half a dozen estate agents who specialised in rental properties.

Perla would just have to get started without him. He tore the sheet with the estate agent's names and addresses in half and scrawled on the part he reposted, _I'll check the rest. – G.L._

Then, as he mentally girded his loins for another day of wrong-way driving, Greg pulled the keys for the pool car assigned to him from his pocket and strode out of the incident room and into an already baking morning.

* * * * * 

"I appreciate you doing this, Greg," John said as he limped down the row of first aid supplies at the Bright Morning Pharmacy and Convenience Store. He was forced to lean heavily on his cane after the rigours of his own follow up physical, so Greg was pushing the shopping trolley that was rapidly being filled with groceries and small necessities to make their stay more comfortable. He glanced out the shop's plate glass window at Greg's borrowed car where Sherlock waited, stretched out and apparently napping in the back seat. "From the look of Sherlock's scans, it's going to be at least another week before he'll be cleared to fly."

"And Room Service is getting boring?" Greg asked. 

John surveyed the items in his trolley, trying to decide if he had missed anything of importance. "It seems ridiculous, but yes. Don't get me wrong. The food is great and the staff has been lovely about taking care of us since getting to the restaurants is difficult, but you wouldn't believe how much I wanted just a plain cheese sandwich for dinner last night", and it seems a waste to not make better use of the kitchen." 

They went down an aisle filled with personal care items. The resort took care of the basics, but Epsom salts wasn't a part of the package. John considered his options and then selected a bag big enough for several days' worth of baths. He was about to tell Greg that he was ready to check out when he saw him staring at a man the end of the row. 

Abruptly Greg turned his back and then physically manhandled John so that he was forced to do the same. 

"What the?" 

"Take the trolley and go back the way we came." 

John stole a glance at the big, sandy-brown haired man Greg was surreptitiously watching. "Is that?" He had only seen surveillance photos and wasn't completely certain.

"JJ Carter," Greg whispered back. He appeared to be thinking furiously. Carter seemed to he immersed in his own shopping, consulting a list before selecting items from the shelf. "One of Peaky's boys." 

All thoughts of small comforts were forgotten as John's temper flared. The ruined holiday. The last few days of being cooped up with an increasingly fractious Sherlock. His own aches and injuries. They all got the better of them. He wrenched the shopping trolley out of Greg's hands and got a good grip on it. He ignored the white hot flare of pain in his knee as he spun it around and lumbered down the aisle far enough to give his improvised weapon momentum before letting go. 

Greg swore as the trolley rattled its way between rows of personal care products and bolted back the way they had come. 

The cart ploughed into the unwary fugitive.

JJ Carter swore as it impacted, staggered, but didn't go down. He wheeled around to see who had lost control of the trolley and his eyes got very wide. 

John got a good grip on his cane as he advanced. He felt nothing but a grim sense of satisfaction. Not even his knee pained him. Carter tried to shove the trolley back up the aisle, but the wheels had twisted, and wouldn't spin. 

Greg came up behind Carter and wagged his finger. "Uh. Uh. I wouldn't try it." 

Carter did anyway. He grabbed a tin of talcum powder off the shelf and threw it hard at Greg's head. 

Greg ducked and powder flew everywhere as the tin hit the floor and broke on impact. 

John used Greg's distraction to advance with his cane raised. The trolley stood between them but it didn't prevent John from bringing his aluminium bludgeon down hard against the top of Carter's meaty shoulder to preventing him from throwing any more improvised missiles. He shoved the trolley out of the way and struck again, this time hard blows against bare knees as retribution for his own injury. 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a member of staff make a frightened Emergency Services Call. "Ask them to send Inspector Bonny," John called over his shoulder. And then he struck Carter on the knee again to ensure he wouldn't cause any more trouble. 

Greg pulled his wallet from his pocket and flipped it over to expose the warrant card. He waved it over his head. "Police!" he announced, just to clear up any misconceptions that they had assaulted a random stranger. "This man is wanted and I'm placing him under arrest." 

He glanced around. A spotty faced teenaged shop assistant had been using gaffer's tape to prevent patrons from tripping over an electric cable that powered a mobile freezer case. Greg held out his hand and asked, "Could I borrow that for a minute?" 

The assistant looked for permission from a stout woman in an orange caftan-style dress who had come out of the back room. She said, "What are you waiting for, boy? Help the officer!" 

The startled teen shook himself out of his stupor, took a few hesitant steps closer, and tore a long strip of tape off the roll. He cautiously handed it to Greg, who used it to bind JJ Carter's hands behind him, just as the first unformed officers arrived in a patrol car.

* * * * * 

Sherlock had been dozing in the back of Greg's car while John took care of the necessary shopping. He opened one eye at the sound of a car being hastily parked, and the other when he saw that the car was a police cruiser, and that officers were descending on the market.

He levered himself into position to get a better look, but paused with his hand on the door handle as he watched Dylan MacTavish, his skinny arms weighed down with shopping bags from a sporting goods store, stride purposefully past the market. When he got to the intersection, a few shop fronts later, he shifted his burdens so that he could hail a taxi. 

Lestrade had thoughtfully left the keys in the ignition to keep the air condition running. Instead of going inside, Sherlock winced as he got behind the wheel, glad that the borrowed unmarked police car was an automatic. He winced again as his ankle protested the sudden change of position but otherwise felt energised, as he generally did when on the brink of breaking a case. 

There was no time to alert John or Lestrade. A taxi had pulled up to the kerb and MacTavish and his baggage were on the verge of getting away. 

Sherlock put the car into gear. He followed the taxi at a distance through the remainder of the shopping district, and when it turned off onto a residential street and started to climb up the hill overlooking the marina, he reached for the radio and contacted police dispatch.

* * * * * 

Mo Delaney jogged up to Inspector Bonny. "Ma'am, there's a message for you from Dispatch." She turned away from the British chief inspector who was reputed to be Sherlock Holmes' handler, and a middle aged, grey/blond man who was leaning heavily on a dented aluminium cane. When he turned his face, Mo recognised the man from the back of a paperback crime thriller he had recently read and tried not to gape. He touched two fingers to the bill of his cap instead.

Inspector Bonny acknowledged the salute with a nod. "What is the message?"

"Sherlock Holmes radioed in. He's got eyes on one of your suspects, Dylan MacTavish. MacTavish is in a taxi and headed up into the Hill District." 

The inspector explained before either the chief inspector or John Watson could ask. "Expensive houses overlooking the marina." She glanced sharply over at DCI Lestrade. "I thought he was with you." 

"He was," John Watson replied. "We left him in the back of the – " He limped to the front of the shop, peered through the plate glass window, and said, "The car is gone. Sherlock has taken your car." 

The DCI blew out a breath. "Of course he has." He didn't sound over-pleased, but he swallowed whatever irritation he felt and said, "Then we better catch him up."

* * * * * 

Sherlock was lucky. There were more cars on the road than his and the taxi. Granted the other vehicles were newer and more expensive than the compact SUV he had borrowed, but that was neither here nor there. What was relevant was he wasn't standing out like a sore thumb as he tailed MacTavish up the hill.

Most of the front gardens were obscured by tall hedges. Unlike the area around the hospital and shopping district where the residents favoured low wrought-iron fences to separate their brightly painted homes, the people who resided on the hill valued their privacy. The glimpses of the houses that were visible revealed them to be mainly multi-storied, and expertly maintained. This was the epicentre of gracious living on Prospero. 

The taxi slowed, and then turned into a driveway. 

Sherlock drove past and continued to the end of the street. He pulled in to the last drive on the right, reversed, and then parked as close as he dared to the target house. A screen of oleander shrubs obscured his movements, and he was glad of it as he cut the engine, and then clumsily shoved the car's door open and swung his legs out. After he levered himself upright he was forced to pause long enough for a blinding jolt of pain to travel over his body before he could retrieve his crutches. 

The taxi driver was a problem. He could be used as a hostage, if MacTavish hadn't panicked and already harmed him. Sherlock peered around the shrubbery. The driver was bent over his mobile. It looked like he was texting. 

Walking straight up to the driver would be imprudent. The branches of a lemon tree, laden with fruit, drooped over a neighbouring property's white-washed plaster privacy wall. Sherlock plucked a pair of lemons from the tree and lobbed them at the back window of the taxi. 

The effect was immediate. The first strike caused the driver to raise his head. The second made him fling the driver's side door open and leap out, intent on giving an ear bashing to whoever was using his car as target practice. 

He strode towards Sherlock with fire in his eye, but when he saw the miscreant was an injured man on crutches, the fire died and was replaced by confusion. 

Sherlock cut straight to the point. "The men inside are killers. You need to come with me if you value your life." 

The taxi driver wasn't completely convinced. "Are you police?" 

Sometimes a shaded truth made life more simple. He was an honorary member of several police organisations, even if he had no official standing on Prospero. "Yes. Now go wait over there."

He pointed at a spot several houses away that was unlikely to be in the line of fire should the fugitives resist. When the taxi driver sprinted away, Sherlock retrieved his mobile from his pocket, and sent a text to Lestrade.

* * * * *

"Now would be good." Greg Lestrade grabbed onto the SUV's window frame as he juggled his mobile. "I'm not sure I like the sound of that. Either Sherlock has them bottled up or they're onto him and he's in trouble." He glanced at John and then at Perla. "Any takers on which?"

John Watson declined to answer. He was radiating an air of quiet anticipation. As if what had happened in the convenience store was only a preview of what he intended to do when he got his hands on Lester Adderson and his associate Dylan MacTavish. 

Perla hoped he could be dissuaded. It was one thing to write in a report that a single prisoner's injuries were the result of an unexpected reunion with the person they had previously assaulted, but to try and use that excuse to justify three people's injuries – That would not go well with the Chief Commissioner or the other members of the Ethics and Oversight Board. 

"It's not much further. Just another half a mile or so." Perla pressed down a bit harder on the accelerator and her escort of patrol cars did the same. 

"There." Greg pointed at the unmarked SUV he had borrowed. "And he has the taxi driver with him." 

"Good." 

Perla slowed. She rolled down her window and signalled to the two patrol units to take up positions on either side of the property. One constable remained behind the wheel of each car and the other jogged up the driveways of the adjacent houses, as they had planned. From there they would hop the dividing walls and take up their positions in the garden of 324 Vista Del Mar, while their partners blocked other avenues of escape. 

She and Greg Lestrade took up their own posts. 

And then they waited.

* * * * * 

Peaky couldn't believe his ears. Not only was John Watson alive, but he was responsible for nicking JJ.

JJ was loyal, but even a loyal man had his limits when faced with a plea deal. He glanced around the room and tried to get a hold of himself. They were already as good as off the island. That's why JJ and Mac had gone down to town, to fix up a boat charter and then get the gear they needed to spend several days at sea. 

Fortunately, he had already started to pack. Money. Passport blanks all filled out with new names just waiting to have photographs laminated in place, the few clothes he had bought since arriving, were already in his holdall. He tossed in his bottles of vitamins and supplements, plus the medications prescribed by the doctor at the clinic, and slung the bag over his shoulder as he looked frantically around the room for anything else he might want to take with him. 

"Come on, Mac, let's get out of here." He took a last look out the window at the garden and at the little yellow and grey birds, and bolted for the front door with Mac on his heels.

"Where's the cabbie?" Peaky skidded to a stop and stared at the empty driver's seat. "Mac! Do something!" 

Mac dropped his bag onto the ground. He wrenched open the driver's side door. He was halfway behind the wheel when the bottom really fell out of Peaky's day. 

A dark woman stepped out from behind the hedge. "Police." She dangled a pair of handcuffs and smiled at him. "Drop the bag and put your hands on the car." 

Then a silver-haired man came from behind the hedge and stood at her back. "Hello, Peaky." He smiled too. "You ran a long way, but we still found you."

Peaky prided himself on not being the sort to give up easily. He flung his valise at the pair and bolted. He knew the layout of the general area. His back garden ended in a cliff face, but the neighbour's house to the left had a path that led down to the street below. And where the house they had rented was surrounded by carefully tended gardens, the ones on the next street were filled with a near jungle of natural landscapes. He would marshal his fear of mosquitoes and flies and hide amongst the plants if it meant escape. 

Arms caught him around the chest as he went over the wall.

"Naughty. Naughty," an amused voice said. 

Peaky scowled. Everyone was treating him like a joke. He struggled in a uniformed constable's arms and then looked up into the face of a dead man as the sound of a low speed collision reverberated in his ears. 

Peaky went he went limp with the realisation that he was done running, at least for the foreseeable future. He blew out a long, deep breath and said, "I give up."

* * * * * 

As it turned out, Sherlock and John's bungalow did have a barbecue grill. Although by rights it should have been one of them doing the honours, Greg had been appointed chef by virtue of the fact that he had two good legs to stand on as he tended the fire.

Perla came up with a plate of marinated Mahi Mahi steaks and a fresh bottle of lager. She dropped the steaks on the grill and handed the beer to Greg. "This is a good way to celebrate the end of a case." 

He poked at the fish with the tongs, and then twisted the cap off the beer, offering the bottle first to Perla. She smiled and took a sip before handing it back to him. 

"So, tomorrow we're off to London," Greg said as he contemplated the lush surroundings with a mild sense of regret. "I hear it's snowing." He turned to look at Perla. "I hope you have a warm coat." 

Perla shook her head. "There's not a lot of call for one here on the island." She gave him a speculative look. "Maybe I can borrow one of yours?"

Greg returned her gaze and imagined her wearing other items of his clothing, like one of his shirts, and not much else. "I think that might be arranged." He drank some of his beer and then handed her back the bottle, confident that this was going to be the beginning of an interesting night. 

On the other side of the garden, Sherlock sat at the umbrella-shaded table and watched Lestrade and Bonny pass a beer bottle back and forth between them. "They seem to be doing their bit to improve Anglo-Caribbean relations," he said as John came up behind him and rested his good hand against the nape of Sherlock's neck. 

John nodded and smiled. He looked tired, but happy. He had played a prominent role in bringing their kidnappers to justice, and clearly he was pleased with the way events had played out. "They look well together. You don't suppose – " 

Sherlock bent his head, encouraging John to continue the massage. There were many things he was willing to speculate about, but the lengths that those who were romantically entangled were willing to go to be together was not one of them. He was often wrong on that score. "You're the better judge of matters of the heart, John. What do you think?" 

John paused digging his fingertips into the knots of Sherlock's shoulders and considered. "I think if things keep progressing the way they are, Greg is going to rack up a lot of frequent flyer miles." He resumed the massage, but it was clear that he was thinking about other things. 

Sherlock had commented on the behaviour of their guests because he wanted to gauge John's mood, and not because he was especially interested in Lestrade's romantic prospects. It was a habit of long standing, so he shouldn't have been surprised when John began to abruptly speak.

"If you're trying to work your way round to apologising, Sherlock, don't. I meant what I said back at the cavern. Being with you is an adventure, and I wouldn't have it any other way." He chuckled ruefully and then added, "Even if it does mean we end up a bit worse for wear at the end of the day." 

Sherlock found himself feeling taken aback. John had made a similar declaration before they had gone into the sea. It had been a magnanimous thing to say, given their situation, and he had believed it kindly meant but not entirely sincere. Now, there was no reason to be kind. If John harboured any resentment over the deception that had brought them to the island, other than their guests, there was nothing stopping him from giving into anger. 

John cleared his throat. "I've got something for you." He reached into the pocket of his shorts and pressed something small and warm against Sherlock's palm. 

Sherlock examined the object. It was an irregularly shaped silver coin. There was a heraldic shield on one side and the worn face of a man on the other. It was in less than pristine condition, but clearly its value to a coin collector wasn't meant to be relevant. 

"I found this on the floor of the cave, back in a corner," John explained. "I stuck it in my pocket when I was searching for a way out, and forgot all about it until I was going through my things." 

A coin from a pirate's horde. Sherlock held it between his thumb and index finger and examined it more closely. "Is this just a memento or am I meant to discern a symbolic meaning as well?"

"Like I'm a bad penny, and no matter what happens, will always turn up?" John said. He shook his head. "Not really. I just thought you'd like it better than a _I Love Prospero_ tee shirt."

He glanced over at Lestrade and Bonny and amusement lit his eyes. "They have to go back to the fog and cold, but you still owe me a proper holiday. And I think you've proved that, despite your injuries, you're more than capable of getting out and about, at least within reasonable limits."

"What are you suggesting, John?" 

"Let's book another appointment at Palm d' Sol." 

Sherlock tried not to grimace in anticipation of enduring the Organic Manuka Honey Spa Experience, but John seemed to read his mind. "No weird treatments. Just a good, old-fashioned sweat in a steam-room, followed by a soak in the therapy pool and a really expert massage. After that, we can play it by ear." 

There was a certain symmetry in going back to the place where their island holiday had gone awry. They couldn't erase the last several days, and the gift of the coin suggested John wasn't saying they should, but they could start again without a deception between them. 

Sherlock rubbed his forearm. His sunburn was healing, and despite copious applications of emollient creams, dead skin was beginning to flake away. Maybe one of the spa's exfoliating scrubs wouldn't be completely without merit. "It would be a shame to not try some of their other, more exotic, treatments." 

John grinned, and his expression grew dreamy. "You mean that? Because it said in their menu that they did this thing – " 

Sherlock let John's voice wash over him. There were all kinds of adventures, not all of which began with the commission of a felony. It seemed, if he let John lead, he was about to let himself in for one of them.

end


End file.
